


Morning

by InchByInch



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-29 21:42:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10145000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InchByInch/pseuds/InchByInch
Summary: She thought she’d grown out of it, but apparently not – waking up in the arms of a man she had absolutely sworn she was not going to sleep with last night.  Carrie briefly opened her eyes then shut them in denial of the reality she now had to face.  She knew this routine.





	

She thought she’d grown out of it, but apparently not – waking up in the arms of a man she had absolutely sworn she was not going to sleep with last night.  Carrie briefly opened her eyes then shut them in denial of the reality she now had to face.  She knew this routine, but it had been a long time. She wasn’t ready right now. 

“Me, too!”

Well, shit, Franny.

That was a wrinkle she hadn’t had to deal with before. Carrie had carefully constructed a life that worked because she kept tight control of everything, especially Franny. Keeping each problem in its own box allowed Carrie to focused on one thing at a time.  A deep bench of child-care helped to contain the Franny problem.

But now the Quinn box and the Franny box were exploding, colliding.  And not just now, in the early morning before she was quite awake, but all the time, really.  Franny was beginning to have her own schedule, her own social and emotional needs that couldn’t be solved by paying someone to look after her.  And Quinn. Well, how had she possibly thought she could control him? She had left him at the VA longer than she should have – another reason to feel guilty – because she knew that efforts to slot him neatly into her life would be futile.

“Good morning, Franny.  Good morning, Hop.”  Quinn shifted behind Carrie to extend his right arm around the red-headed bundle jumping on top of them both as they lay still dressed in their clothes from last night.

“Me, too!  I want a hug, too!  Why did you both sleep on the couch last night?”

“Hey, Beautiful Girl,” Carrie said, rolling over to face Quinn and her daughter.  She carefully helped Quinn shift his left arm to a position that seemed comfortable and kissed Franny’s head.  “We fell asleep while watching TV.”

“Again?”

“Again,” answered Quinn seriously.  “Will you tell me how _Frozen_ ends?” 

“Mommy saw the end, she put me to bed after.”  Fuck you, Franny.  Yes, I’m lying to you and to myself.  I put you to bed and I returned to sleep here the rest of the night instead of leaving Quinn to himself.  We all three know it, but I don’t want to discuss it. 

“Want breakfast, Hop?” Quinn asked.  “I can make oatmeal.”

“With raisins and maple syrup?” 

“Of course. But you have to get up first.”  He’s talking to me, too, she thought.  Carrie and Franny were both sprawled partly on top of Quinn’s larger form, and he didn’t want to dump them on the floor to get away.  Carrie sat up with her feet on the floor and pulled Franny onto her lap, but the little girl immediately jumped up and ran into the kitchen.  Carrie absently began rubbing Quinn’s left leg over his sweatpants, just as she had so many mornings in the hospital.  She hadn’t touched him that intimately for over three months now, but it still felt normal. 

“Thanks.” He said gruffly.  She didn’t look him in the face but continued with her massage for a few minutes.  

“Peter!”  Franny called from the kitchen.

“I can make breakfast.”  Carrie started to get up.

“No, it’s good occupational therapy for me,” and faster than she thought possible, he was limping into the kitchen, shaking his left leg out as he went.  

Carrie took a moment to consider that he really was limping, which was much better than shuffling, first thing in the morning after what must have been a less than optimal sleep.

He was also purposely leaving her to think.   Fucker. 

So, think. Why was she deliberately sleeping with Quinn on the couch, curled in his arms, holding him tight, resting her head against his chest all night? And then pretending she hadn’t meant to? For the third time in two weeks? She was forgetting the number one priority – don’t fuck this up. Not Quinn. And Franny was in it, now too.  Fuck.  Don’t scare him away again.  Don’t miss an opportunity again.  DON’T FUCK THIS UP.  And this nonsense of sleeping in his arms and pretending it was an accident, Mathison, this is the very definition of fucking things up.  You are fucking everything up for all three of us.

So, how to unfuck it? Put each issue into a box and deal with it.  Right.  What are the major issues?

Well, she wanted him, wanted to feel close, wanted to feel his body and his touch, wanted _him_.  Of course she did.  Since her father's funeral, and especially since Berlin, when she had noticed her own reactions to him and analyzed his actions towards her.  Then she'd read the letter, of course. Even if the feelings written there were out of date, she knew she had a chance at something…something beyond what she’d ever hoped for herself.

But then, he’d been so changed.  Damaged. Speaking like a child, and sometimes she wasn’t sure how sharp he was cognitively. Did they still have a chance, could she be with him the way he was now? Fuck, she still desired him, so there was that. But, it wouldn’t be right or fair to act on her desires, would it? Not until the time was _right_. Not until he was ready. Otherwise, she’d fuck that up.

She already felt guilty remembering how she had snuggled against his body in the hospital, back when he had been too far gone and drugged up to protest or even notice.  She’d just needed the comfort of him close to her.  And she’d kissed him and been tender with him, of course.  He was in terrible shape and she was so relieved he was awake and progressing. She’d also had plenty of chances to admire him. It wasn’t like he was modest, even when they’d just been colleagues, so she didn’t feel too guilty about that. Still, thinking about how spectacular he was didn’t really recognize the whole man, her best friend. So, she didn’t want to fuck that up. Mightily fuck that up. She had to wait.

He still sometimes came off as child-like, but she wasn’t fooled anymore.  She knew he was really Quinn underneath. Aphasia, speech impediment, psychological problems were just part of a package.  Those issues certainly were not deal breakers for Carrie, who had her own bipolar, PTSD, guilty, fucked-up-six-ways-to-Sunday story. And then there were the past couple of nights.  He took his amitriptyline at 8:00 and was dozing off by 8:20. She buried her face in his neck and stayed awake wanting more. So, no, the problem wasn’t that she thought of him as damaged or unsexy, but clearly, she was still trying to control him like a child. And he sure as hell hated it when she treated him like that.  So, **totally** fucking that up.

Carrie sighed.  That control problem was deeper than her expectations for Quinn.  Years of therapy had helped her to understand that.  The beauty of married men had been that they were caught in their own box.  And the beauty of Jonas was his predictability made him easy to contain.  She’d set a framework around that relationship so that she met his needs and he met hers, no surprises.  And she’d been so grateful for how he treated Franny. He was an excellent babysitter. Well, at least for Franny he was. She really loved him for that, and she had been happy. Until everything got so fucked up, of course.

But now, Quinn.  She had controlled everything for him for a while, his treatment, his therapies, everything.  By overseeing his medications, she could even control his sleeping and his moods.  But that hadn’t lasted, of course.  Now she had nothing, no framework, no box, and no control. She couldn't even control her own feelings anymore. She wanted him.  Always had, but in the past two days something seemed to have changed and suddenly she really _really_ wanted him, desperately, which was totally out of control.  And, fucked up, of course, because it wasn’t right, was it?  He wasn’t himself yet. But, he would never be quite like he was before, so how would she know he was in the right place? And, what if he never got too much different from how he was now?  Then what would she want? Was she just using him? Was she even sane enough to be happy with someone who was so… uncontrollable? There was just no way to avoid fucking this up. 

Fuck.

The smell of coffee called her up and towards the table where Quinn and Franny were eating breakfast.

“It’s back.”  Her daughter was complaining. “Two days ago it was all gone, but it’s back.”

“Just a little.  It always grows.  I’ll keep shaving it off, most mornings after I wake up.  It will grow a little, but not big bushy like it was.”

“Hop likes it better now.  It’s OK when it’s just a little.” 

“Anything for Hop.  And anything for you, Franny.  You know that.”  Quinn turned to Carrie and pushed a mug of coffee towards her.  “Hungry?”  he asked.  

“Not yet.  Hey Franny, it’s raining out today.  I thought we might make a special exception to the screens rule.” Another way she was fucking things up.  They all knew Carrie made a special exception to the screens rule pretty much every weekend.  “After oatmeal, would you and Hop like to watch _Mulan_?” Quinn looked right at her, but his face didn’t change a bit.  Yeah, he was definitely recovering more of his old cognitive skills.   She would miss his transparent expressions, which, of course, made him easier to control.  He got up and moved to the fridge.

“Yea!” 

“Put your bowl in the sink, then you and Hop go brush your teeth and get dressed.”  Franny obeyed cheerfully, leaving Carrie a chance to deliver her little speech. 

But Quinn interrupted her thoughts. 

“It’s not only up to you, you know,” he said, as he placed a yogurt container in front of her. Quinn had known Carrie would come back down last night, and he’d been tempted to skip his medications. Or just go back down to his own bed. The list of seemingly insurmountable problems was a barricade between them that he couldn’t figure out how to navigate.  But he’d decided to play the long game, and now he would have to be innovative.

“What?”

“Third date. Decision time.”

Fuck. Get back in your fucking box, Quinn. 

“Have I fucked everything up already?”

Quinn sighed.  “Carrie. No. But there are two of us here.” He thought about how she felt lying on top of his fucked-up body, allowing his fucked-up brain to have a moment of peace, enjoying the sensation of her hair beneath his lips, her breath on his collarbone, her skin under his hand.  What was the price of that feeling in the midst of his completely fucked-up life?

“OK, Quinn. So what do you want?”

“Let’s talk.”

“Talk?” You don’t get to be both wise and brain damaged.  Choose one box and stay in it.

“Yeah.”

“So, talk.” She opened her yogurt. 

“I can’t talk.  I’m fucked up.  You talk.” 

“You can talk just fine. I can wait.”  It was true. She had developed patience beyond belief in recent years, a skill gained from coping with both Franny and Quinn. So she ate her yogurt.

He stared at her, gathering the thoughts that had been circling in his head for weeks now.  Carrie had been treating him as though he were less than a man, which was a huge turn-off.  But then, her smile…yeah, if she really was just teasing, he would have to leave. Fuck, don’t fuck this up. And…Franny. Nothing mattered more than Franny. That is what gave her away.

“Franny likes me.”

 “She does.” What the fuck, Quinn? Was she Jonas in this relationship? Was Quinn more interested in being a father to Franny than a partner to her?

“That doesn’t bother you.”

“Of course not. I want you two to get along.”

“That’s what I thought… Your two kids.”

“OK, OK, I get that.  Sometimes I act, I don’t know… like a nurse.  I’m clearly a terrible nurse.  But, I don’t **think** of you like a child, Quinn. I know you’re still you, even when things aren’t working like they should.  You know that. I’m just worried.  Your brain is healing.  Your mind is fragile.”

“No.”

“Yes, Quinn.  You are still healing.”

“No, I mean, yeah, but I don’t think that’s it.  You’ve built a really good life and you don’t want to fuck it up. That makes sense.”

She laughed derisively, as though that was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. But before she could respond, Franny bounded down the stairs. 

Good timing, thought Carrie.

Rotten timing, Kiddo, thought Quinn.  How the hell can I seduce a woman who has seen me cry because I kept falling when I tried to stand?  Or who pays for all my food and clothes? Especially when I sound like a fucking freak. Even if I can convince her to take a chance, I'll just end up like a dog who finally catches a bus. I’m physically and mentally unfit for her.

“Mommy, did you see the pictures Peter and I made yesterday?” The little girl banged two coloring pages of the tortoise and the hare onto the table and pushed them towards Carrie.  “Peter did it all with his left hand. I helped him.  And, see, he sometimes stayed inside the lines and sometimes he didn’t.”

“Staying in the lines is over-rated, Franny-girl.” Carry said playfully.

Franny looked at both of them, skeptically.

“Your mom’s right.”

“So why do you work so hard to do it?  Why do you always want me to help you practice?” she demanded of Quinn. 

“I’m not very good at it, so I have to practice. And, sometimes, staying in the lines can help the bigger picture make sense. I’m glad you’re helping me.”

“Do you like to color in the lines, Mommy?”

“I do, the lines keep the colors separate and organized.”  Safe, she thought.  “But, sometimes, I get stuck trying to color just one part of the picture, so I guess I need help, too.”

“Yes,” agreed Franny. “I like best of all to color my own picture, my own way. But the picture doesn’t always turn out the way I want. Peter helped me with this one. I like the way it turned out better than how I was trying to make it at first.  Can I watch _Mulan_ now?”

Great, now she would deal with Quinn.  “Sure, Baby.”  But when she turned from settling Franny into her ~~box~~ video for the next 90 minutes, Quinn had left the kitchen.

OK, fine.  “Quinn?” She found him slowly moving up the stairs.  “Where are you going?”  No answer.  God, that man’s tendency towards the mysterious was habitual. And irresistible. 

Carry followed him and they arrived on the upstairs landing at the same time.

“Quinn…” Before she could say another word, Quinn had grabbed her waist and spun her around so that her back was against the wall right outside her bedroom.  He leaned on the wall over her, his face was inches from hers. 

“Carrie,” he said softy.  He ducked his head close to her face, so that his nose and his lips trailed against her cheek. She arched up towards him, and he nodded his head down further. She felt his eyelashes against the side of her neck.  He moved his lips against her ear. “I want you.”  Then he pulled away just enough to look her in the eye.  “What do you want?” 

“I want you.  So much.  Please don’t let me fuck this up.” 

“We’ll figure things out together, Carrie, it will be OK,” but that was the last full sentence he said to her for a long time.

 


End file.
